GIFT  OF 
Class    of   1900 


Character  Sketches  in  Rhyme 
and  Other  Verses 


BY 

CHAS.  ANTHONY  DOYLE 


San  Francisco 

The  WESTERN  PUBLISHING  CO. 

1911 


+**. 


Title,  Sab-Titles  and  Matter 
COPYRIGHTED  1911  By  CHAS.  ANTHONY  DOYLE 


The  Blair-Murdock  Company 

San  Francisco 

IQII 


Contents 

PAGE. 

FOREWORD 5 

To  D.  S.  R 7 

IN  SERIOUS  MOOD 

A  Phantasy   n 

A  Question  for  the  Masters   21 

At  Sutro  Heights   23 

My  Temple    25 

Two  Little  Girls  of  Mine 26 

Sierra  to  the  Singer 28 

Song  3i 

A  Ballad  for  the  Gael 33 

Our  Mothers   39 

His   Monuments    41 

To  Joaquin  Miller  43 

Below  the  Cliff  House 44 

Looking   Forward    45 

A  Call  to  the  Hills  47 

IN  DIALECT 

Two  Idylls  of  the  Old  Town 51 

The  Social  South  of  the  Slot 5* 

The   Proposal    55 

The  Same  Old  Game 60 

"Aisy  Come  an'  Aisy  Go" 62 

Rhymes  Without  Reason    66 

The  Tale  of  the  Whangeree 66 

The   Chemical   Cat    68 

Brannigan's  Lawn   71 

Gloom  in  Darktown   74 

Kennedy's   Cure    77 

From  a  Perry  Street  Front  Stoop 79 

Fellowship   $3 

The  Cats  av  Kilkenny 84 

TOWN  BALLADS  AND  PLAIN  STATEMENTS 

Where  You  Live  Every  Day 89 

A  Song  for  the  Down  and  Out 92 

Mother  Hubbard  Up  to  Date 95 

The  Danger  Line  98 

Don't  Stay  at  the  Grave  Too  Long 100 

In  Parting   101 


744252 


Foreword 

To  MARY  KARMA,  AND  HELEN: 

You  have  always  been  my  most  indulgent  readers,  and, 
for  that  reason — and  one  other — /  wish  to  divide  with  you 
the  responsibility  of  this  very  unnecessary  adventure.  I 
shall  hardly  blame  the  armored  cruisers  of  the  critics  for 
broad-siding  me  as  an  unlicensed  privateer,  but  (and  this 
is  the  other  reason)  perhaps  your  sweet  presence  on  the 
voyage  may  disarm  them  of  their  hostility. 

I  recall  that  many  of  these  songs  and  jingles  were 
primarily  written  for  your  amusement.  You  both  re 
member, 

"The  grieving  lad  who  stood 
Disconsolate   beside  the   flood" 

there  mourning  in  tears  the  loss  of  his  little  wooden  boats 
with  their  paper  sails.  Dear,  kindly  Mr.  Brannigan  often 
told  you  fairy  lore  on  the  lawn,  and  you  saw  enough  of 
Mr.  Kennedy  to  know  he  considered  his  one  medicine  a 
specific  for  every  form  of  pain.  I  can  personally  testify 
that,  after  I  had  informed  your  curiosity  that  a  Whang- 
eree  was  a  male  Whangeroo,  you  embarrassed  me  very 
much  indeed  by  wanting  to  know  what  was  a  Whangeroo. 
Now  that  we  three  are  much  older,  we  know  there  are 
many  Whangerees  and  W hanger oos  in  this  happy,  silly, 
old,  best  of  worlds.  They  do  not  wear  tails  and  throw 
cocoanuts  at  each  other  from  the  trees,  to  be  sure,  but  they 
wear  tremendous  plumes  and  they  throw  other  things  and 
often  take  to  perilous  voyages  when  it  might  have  been 
better  had  they  stayed  at  \orne. 

I  repeat  that  I  feel  these  songs  and  jingles  belong  to 
you,  and,  now  since  they  are  offered  to  the  public,  not  only 
to  you,  but  to  any  and  all  readers  who  invest  them  with 
their  passing  attention  and  good-natured  indulgence.  To 
all  such  readers,  therefore,  and  to  you,  my  dearest  Helen 
and  Karma,  what  follows  is  sincerely  dedicated. 

CHAS.  ANTHONY  DOYLE. 

BERKELEY,  November  2ist,  1911. 


To  D.  S.  R.: 

YY7ELL,  Dan,  here   I   am  on  the  back  of 
*  *  Pegasus, 

And  now  that  I'm  mounted,  I  must 
At  the  risk  of  a  spill 
Climb  the  sacred  old  Hill 
With  the  slogan,  "Parnassus — or  bust!" 

Ah!   well,    if    the   comrades   who    follow   the 

journey 

Here  and  there  find  a  laugh  or  a  thrill; 
If  one  song  of  good  cheer 
They  discover,  Dan,  here — 
I'll  dismount  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

C.  A.  D. 


IN    SERIOUS    MOOD 


A  Phantasy     •"  > 

T  MET  him  on  a  mountain's  dismal  height, 
-*-    Whence  to  escape  the  little  things  of  earth 
My  eager  feet  had  led  me  of  a  day. 
He  stood,  tall,  gaunt  and  pitiful — and  glared 
With  eyes  whose  savage  fire  proclaimed  a  soul 
Held  bondage  in  a  dreadful  tenement. 
And,  with  a  cry  whose  agony  was  tense 
With  fright  and  suffering,  he  swiftly  fled. 
Then  paused  and  looked  at  me.  I  beckoned  him 
With  easy  gestures  while  he  stood  all  mute 
And  timid  to  my  quick  approach. 

He  spoke : 
"Art  come  to  rob  me  of  my  dreams?"     "Nay, 

nay," 

I  answered  him;  "my  brother,  tell  me  why 
With  bruised  feet,  gaunt  face  and  wild  beast 

skins, 

Thou  keepst  a  desolate  vigil  in  this  waste. 
Is  it  some  madness  of  a  frenzied  brain, 

11 


Or  sha.rest  thou  with  me  a  fierce  desire 
To  flee  the  mockeries  of  a  heartless  world?" 
With  dull,  dead  eyes  he  hovered  o'er  my  speech; 
Then,  creeping  close  to  me,  he  said : 

"Full  well 

I  know  the  place,  for  here  once  on  a  time, 
Ere  Discord  damned  my  soul  to  solitude, 
I  met  a  vision  of  ethereal  grace, 
Pregnant  with  all  those  harmonies  of  mind 
That  typify  the  higher  seraphim. 
My  eyes  in  reverent  wonder  feasted  on 
Her  charms  of  face,  and  poise,  and  flowing  hair; 
My  lonely  soul  absorbed  the  singular  spell 
As  the  dry  ground  draws  the  summer  rain 
Beneath  it's  panting  soil.    I  seemed  to  feel 
A  new  existence — and  why  not?    Before, 
I  was  alone  and  often  vaguely  yearned 
For  some  pale  moon  to  temper  my  hot  sun 
And  soothe  my  utter  loneliness. 


12 


"And  there — there  she  stood,  much  as  an  angel 

might, 

With  bouyant  feet  and  undulating  poise, 
And  stretched  her  arms  to  me — her  matchless 

arms 
Of  purest  white — thus  pleading  me  to  come. 

"Her  eyes — how  blue,  how  bright,  how  wonder- 

ful; 
Her  hair — how  like   thin,   wimpled  webs  of 

gold; 
Her  brow — how  white;  her  neck — how  sweetly 

arched; 
Her  mouth — how  fit  for  music  and  kind  words! 

"Awed  by  the  conflict  in  my  spell-bound  soul — 
For  how  with  angels  dare  men  parley  words? — 
Speechless,  I  neared  her,  looked  into  her  eyes, 
And  she  in  mine  as  earnestly,  and  so, 
Beneath  the  stars  that  placid  holy  night, 
Love's  child  was  born  and  baptized  with  our 
tears. 

13 


"I  asked  of  her  to  be  a  friend  to  me 
In  thought,  in  act,  in  sympathy  and  soul; 
To  share  with  me  this  solitude  where  she 
Had  come  so  strangely  and  so  suddenly.    And 

when 

I  pleaded  thus,  she  answered  me  in  words 
Which  sounded  like  sweet  music  in  a  dream. 
She  placed  her  alluring  arms  about  my  neck 
And  let  me  clasp  her  close:  then  as  the  breeze 
Betossed  her  golden  hair,  I  brushed  it  back 
With  loving  hands  and  pressed  a  passionate  kiss 
Upon  her  cheek,  and  so  we  mutely  sealed 
This  deathless  tryst  of  ours. 

"Thence  for  a  while 
Our  lives  mingled  in  peaceful  destiny — 
As  streams  start  from  a  mountain-side  and  blend 
In  dear  communion  in  the  vale,  where,  clasped 
Together,  they  race  joyous  to  the  sea. 


14 


"We  roamed  with  both  arms  intertwined, 
The  mountain's  broad  plateau,  all  covered  o'er 
With  stately  trees  and  dainty  foliage, 
And  sang  full   blithesome    songs,    or  lightly 

laughed 

To  mark  a  playful  happening,  or  plucked 
Some  tender  little  plant  and  from  its  leaves 
Considered  Nature's  marvelous  laws  and  mys 
tic  chemistry. 

Then,  in  the  quiet  eve,  we  sought  our  bower, 
Hid  'neath  an  arch  of  swaying  firs  and  pines, 
And  lying  at  full  length  upon  a  couch 
Of  downy  leaves,  I  let  my  head  recline 
Upon  her  pulsing  bosom  while  she  sang 
Sweet  songs  and  lulled  me  to  repose. 

"But,  oh! 
The  change — the  awful  change — when  Nature 

seemed 
To  rend  her  jagged  summits.    Foaming  streams 


15 


Formed    swiftly    on    the    mountain-side    and 

dashed 
Furiously  down  dizzy  depths.    The  dark  clouds 

marched, 
Like  soldiers  to  a  bloody  fray,  in  great  black 

columns, 
And  they  met  and  burst,  and  the  harsh  thunder 

rolled 

Like  juggernauts  of  doom  along  the  sky, 
While  rain  in  torrents  fell  upon  the  earth 
And   drenched  me   standing  on   the   infernal 

height. 

"Then,  'bove  the  wrathful  tempest's  vehemence, 
I  called  to  her — 'My  life,  my  soul,  to  come 
To  me.7    No  answer  soothed  my  loneliness ; 
Yet  once  methought  I  heard  her  sybil  voice 
Cry  out  to  me  in  tones  which  fainter  grew 
As  she  increased  her  foul  estrangement  from 
me. 


What  she  said 

I  could  not  hear;  but  this  I  know:  her  voice 
Pierced  my  soul  like  steel ;  my  throbbing  brain 
Seemed  reeling  with  a  writhing  pain ;  I  sank 
To  earth  bewildered  and  benumbed. 

"For  hours 

Senseless  there  I  must  have  lain,  for  when 
I  rose  'twas  morn.  ...  I  saw  the  very  spot 
Where  in  the  past  I  met  her  who  had  been 
My  comfort  and  my  curse. 

"The  mount 

Seemed  rent  from  peak  to  bed  below,  and  down 
The  horrible 'abyss  a  torrent  rushed 
With  fearful  speed  and  maddened  energy. 
My  waking  thought  was  that  I  had  but  dreamed, 
And  so  I  reached  my  hand  for  her — but  she 
Was  gone — 

Gone, 

Gone, 

Gone, 


17 


"The  thought  beat  on  my  soul 
Like  hammers  on  a  forge.    I  madly  stamped 
The  ground  in  bitterness  of  spirit — once 
Approached  the  abyssmal  brink  with  deadly 

purpose,  but 

Withheld  the  fatal  step,  for  in  my  ears 
I  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  cry  out:   'This  is 
The  bitter  damning  end  of  thy  delusion ; 
Thy  feet  hath  crushed  the  grapes,  so  thou  must 

drink 

The  wine — and  if  thou  findst  it  gall,  think  Hell 
Is  sourer!'    And  I  started  up  and  laughed 
With  an  insane  complacency,  and  said: 
'So  sayest  thou?    Well,  then,  so  let  it  be — 
I'll  pledge  Hell's  fire  to  thee  in  every  glass!' 
Thus  shouting,  once  again  I  sank 
Exhausted  on  the  repelling  ground. 

"Still  here  in  spirit  on  the  mountain-top 
I  stand  and  gaze  across  the  dread  abyss, 
With  mournful  eyes,  expecting  to  behold 

18 


The  radiant  being  of  my  golden  past. 
I  wait  and  hope — and  hoping,  still  do  live- 
Not  for  myself,  but  for  my  astral  soul. 
I  often  wake  weird  voices  in  the  vale 
By  crying  out: 

'My  dream! 

My  life! 

My  soul! 

'Art  lost? 

Art  lost? 

Art  lost?' 

"And  mocking  demons  thunder  in  my  ears: 

f Dream! 

Life! 

Soul! 

'Lost! 

Lost! 

Lost!' " 


19 


A  song  of  a  soul  that  lived  alone  .  .  . 

And  loved  with  a  strong  endeavor: 
A  sinister  measure  of  weary  moan 

For  a  love  that  is  lost — forever? 
The  song  sayeth  not — and  how  shall  I  say? 

Ask  the  stars  above  or  the  dead  below — 
I  give  you  the  tale  .  .  .  read  it  ...  place  it 
away  .  .  . 

And  think  no  more  .      .  it  is  better  so. 


20 


A  Question  for  the  Masters 

rr^WO  men  went  forth  to  realize  their  lives— 
•**         One  armed  with  dreadful  weapons  of 

Defense ; 

With  craft  of  speech  and  threatening  artifice, 
And  crouched  for  Conquest — treacherous  and 

tense, 
He  trampled  living  things  so  they  were  dead; 

Swept  men  aside  and  knew  no  thrill  but  Gain. 
Blood,  Woe,  and  Ruin  marked  his  conquering 

course, 

'Til,  battle-worn,  upon  a  bed  of  pain, 
Surrounded  by  rich  trophies  of  his  Pride, 
He  fought  the  last  grim  Battle — lost — and 
died. 

The  other  man  went  forth,  loving  the  Earth, 
The  Earth  and   all  things  quick   and  living 

there; 
Armed  only  with  strong  hands  to  help  the  Weak; 


21 


With  bright  hopes  and  kind  words  to  scatter 

everywhere. 
He,  too,  fought  gallantly,  but  fought  to  free 

The  bonds  of  Suffering  and  to  banish  Wrong — 
But  the  first  man  had  crept  near  him  while  he 

slept 
And  killed  him — and  passed  valiantly  along. 

So  Love  and  Hate  contend  from  day  to  day — 
God  knows  which  wins;   but,  Masters,  can  you 
say? 


i 


At  Sutro  Heights 

CAN  see  you  standing  there, 
Wistful  face  and  wind-tossed  hair 
Where  the  sea, 
Far  below  the  Sutro  Heights, 
Holds  the  red  sun's  dying  lights 

Solemnly; 

And  again  your  hand  I  press 
With  Love's  silent  tenderness, 
My  Marie. 

Nor  the  bitterness  of  years, 
Nor  their  dreariness  and  tears 

Can  dismiss 

That  sweet  hour  of  hope  and  youth 
When  our  hearts'  unsullied  truth 

Knew  the  bliss 
Of  the  Love  to  us  revealed, 
And  the  deathless  vows  we  sealed 

With  a  kiss. 


Here  again  at  sunset's  hour, 
Lone  I  stand  and  feel  the  power 

Of  that  spell ; 
Trailing  banners  of  the  sun 
Signal  day  is  drear  and  done — 

Hark!  the  swell 
Of  the  loyal,  friendly  sea 
Seems  to  say:  "She  loveth  thee, 

All  is  well!" 

I  believe — Love's  will  be  done — 
Farewell,  Heights  and  Sea  and  Sun, 

Sweet  farewell! 
Shall  I  find  you  waiting  me, 

My  Marie? 


24 


My  Temple 

]i  yTY  Temple  is  the  peaceful  Wood, 
-***-*•       Its  Dome  the  arching  sky  above; 
Its  Choir — the  wild-birds'  choralhood 

That  chants  clear  canticles  of  Love. 
And  singing  brooks  which  seek  the  seas — 

Their  minors  and  sweet  trebles  call, 
While  winds  witch  music  from  the  trees — 

Then  dumbly  on  my  knees  I  fall, 
And  Peace  and  Hope  come  to  me  from 

The  kind  God  who  is  over  all. 

Nor  am  I  one  lone  Worshipper — 

List  to  the  linnet's  thrilling  prayer! 
Mark  where  the  grasses  lightly  stir — 

The  med'lark  reverently  is  there, 
And,  Oh !  the  call  to  Heaven  it  peals — 

So  pure,  so  faithful  and  so  free — 
My  soul  the  immortal  service  feels 

And  thrills  with  strange  security; 
Then  twilight's  Benediction  falls, 

And  the  stars  swing  o'er  God's  Sanctuary. 

25 


Two  Little  Girls  of  Mine 

T  KNOW  four  stars  in  a  wonderful  sky 

Which  shine  as  stars  never  shone  above; 
I  listen  to  music  of  marvelous  power, 

Thrilled  with  its  beautiful  measures  of  Love. 
I  know  two  hearts  more  tender  and  true 

Than  other  hearts  ever  could  be,  I  trow, — 
And  now  do  you  wish  me  to  tell  to  you 

The  secrets  of  these  rare  things  I  know? 
Then  listen!  the  music  so  near  divine, 
The  Hearts  so  tender,  the  Stars  a-shine 

Are  the  Voices,  the  Hearts,  and  the  Eyes  so 

bright 
Of  two  little  girls  of  mine. 

Two  little  girls  of  mine!  some  day 

My  ears  shall  not  hear  your  voices  of  song, 

And  the  Stars  of  my  soul  shall  fade  away — 
And  oh!  then  the  nights  shall  be  weary  and 
long— 


26 


For  two  Proud  Princes  will  take  you  from  me 
That  your  Eyes  and  your  Voices  and  Hearts 

be  theirs — 
So  'tis  written  in  Life  that  life  must  be — 

But  no,  I  shall  banish  my  foolish  despairs, 
For  your  Love  and  your  Faith  shall  still  'round 

me  twine 

Like  roses  which  bloom  on  a  brave  old  vine; 
And  so  that  your  Princes  be  brave  and  true, 
They  may  come — but  I  shall  follow  them,  too — 
For  my  soul  shall  always  abide  with  you — 
Two  little  girls  of  mine! 


27 


Sierra  to  the  Singer 


"And  so  I  wait  nor  fear  the  tide 
That  comes  so  swiftly  on  to  hide 
My  little  light.    The  mountains  glow; 
I  have  their  promise  and  I  know." 
-From  "The  Promise  of  the  Sierra" — D,  S.  Richardson. 


f"T^HY  gentle  measures  rise  and  fall 
With  buoyant  music  undefiled, 
Thou  heard'st  the  distant  mountains  call; 

On  thee  the  vales  and  rivers  smiled ; 
Thou  knew'st  their  language,  felt  their  thrall 
And  listened  like  a  musing  child. 


Your  candid  eyes  swept  true  and  far 
And  caught  the  marvels  of  the  wood; 

You  knelt  where  God's  real  temples  are; 
Where  strange  cathedral  shadows  brood; 

You  knew  the  dread  Yosemite 
And  vast  Sierra's  solitude. 


28 


And  thrilled  with  Nature's  passionate  thought- 
Your  soul  uplifted,  tense  and  strong — 

In  adoration  deeply  fraught 
With  love  of  truth,  with  hate  of  wrong, 

Paused  in  your  pilgrimage,  and  wrought 
A  glorious  offering  of  Song. 

Oh!  could  the  Hills  reply  to  you! 

The  Crags,  the  Inland  Seas,  the  Plain! 
Their  answer:  "Friend,  thy  songs  are  true; 

Their  harmonies  with  us  remain; 
Abide  with  us ;  renew,  renew 

Thy  dear  devotion — sing  again. 

"Come  to  us  from  the  selfish  town, 
Where  Mammon  lifts  his  brazen  face; 

Forget  the  curse  of  Power  and  Crown, 
The  Shylocks  in  the  market  place; 

The  Sun  rides  full — ere  it  goes  down, 
Sing  one  more  song  of  tender  grace! 


29 


"Come  where  your  Mountains  wait  to  greet; 

Come  where  the  white  Sierras  glow; 
Come  where  the  marvelous  rivers  meet; 

Come  to  the  promise  which  you  know — 
For,  faithful  Singer,  we  repeat: 

'We  love  you  so !  we  love  you  so !' ' 


30 


Song 

T    OVE  is  like  a  butterfly 
*~*    That  flits  from  flower  to  flower, 
And  daintily  dines 
As  it  shimmers  and  shines 
'Midst  the  sweets  of  a  fairy  Bower. 
Love  is  a  Cherub  with  tiny  wings, 
Armed  with  a  Bow  of  Gold, 
And  a  quiver  of  darts 
For  maidens'  hearts — 
(Or  so  the  tale  has  been  told.) 

Forever  and  a  day — 
Forever  and  a  day, 
The  little  god  hides 
'Neath  heather  sides, 

Or  down  by  a  quiet  river, 
To  pinion  its  darts 
In  Lovers'  hearts — 

Yet  always  full  is  the  Quiver. 


31 


Love — its  voice  is  sweet  and  low, 

Yet  heard,  how  swift,  how  clearly! 
To  Cupid's  caress 
We  joyfully  press — 
But  pay  for  it — oh!  how  dearly! 
Love  is  a  vision  which  comes  at  night 
To  hearts  that  are  sad  and  cold; 
Alas!  with  the  Dawn 
The  vision  is  gone — 
(And  so  has  the  tale  been  told.) 

Forever  and  a  day — 
Forever  and  a  day — 

The  little  god  hides 

'Neath  heather  sides, 
Or  down  by  a  quiet  river, 

To  pinion  its  darts 

In  Maidens7  hearts — 
Yet  always  full  is  the  Quiver. 


32 


A  Ballad  for  the  Gael 

STILL  thru  the  sweep  of  the  long,  sad  ages, 
The  faithful  Celt  on  Patrick's  Day 
Reverts  in  thought  with  a  tender  yearning 
To  dear  old  Ireland,  far  away. 

He  sees  in  fancy  her  valley  vistas, 
The  Munster  Galtees  before  him  lie; 

Shimmering  dreams  of  waving  flower  fields, 
Spangled  with  shamrocks,  greet  his  eye. 

The  Kildare  Curragh  again  reechoes 

Martial  shouts  of  brawny  men; 
The  low,  vague  drone  of  drowsy  cattle 

Rises  from  many  a  dale  and  glen. 

And  then  as  the  bright  day  draws  to  a  waning, 
Under  the  twilight's  creamy  fleece 

The  silver  call  of  the  village  vespers 
Greets  his  ears  like  a  breath  of  peace. 


33 


Again  the  exile  enters  the  cottage, 

Where  Plenty  hung  from  the  rafter-tree; 

His  Irish  mother,  close  to  the  fireplace, 
Plies  at  her  spinnet  tranquilly. 

But  the  vision  fades  and  the  dreamer  wakens 
From  the  spell  a  truant  fancy  planned, 

With  a  sigh  for  the  days  of  vanished  boyhood 
And  a  loyal  tear  for  his  Native  Land. 

Time  shall  never  chill  his  devotion, 

Distance  never  can  tempt  his  soul 
To  forget  the  land  where  the  lordly  Shannon, 

And  the  Lee  and  the  Liffey  waters  roll. 

For  next  to  the  Irish  mother  who  bore  him, 
His  love  is  plighted  with  patriot  heart 

To  darling  Erin — and  that  betrothal 
Hands  of  iron  shall  never  part. 

Tyrants  tried  it  with  rack  and  bloodshed, 
Traitors  tried  it  with  bribes  of  gold, 

But  Might  was  futile  and  wealth  was  powerless 
To  conquer  a  Faith  that  is  ages  old. 

34 


Twas  strengthened  first  when  brutal  Cromwell, 
Lusting  for  murder,  thirsting  for  power, 

Came  like  a  plague  to  peaceful  Ireland 
With  his  Norman  hordes  in  an  evil  hour. 

'Twas   baptized   with    the   blood    of    innocent 
infants, 

Shed  by  Strongbow's  cruel  hand 
And  confirmed  by  legions  of  loyal  martyrs 

Who  offered  their  lives  for  native  land. 

That  Love  has  triumphed  thru  sieges  of  Famine, 
It  has  lessened  the  Exile's  bitter  pain; 

Trampled  and  crushed  by  the  heels  of  despots, 
God  has  nursed  it  to  life  again. 

And  as  long  as  a  fetter  remains  to  pinion 

Erin  down  to  Oppression's  toil; 
As  long  as  a  tenant  pays  his  tribute 

To  alien  masters  for  native  soil; 


35 


As  long  as  the  curse  of  English  conquest 
Sullies  the  isle  that  once  was  pure, 

As  long  as  Truth  is  a  blight  to  tyrants, 
So  long  will  the  love  of  the  Celt  endure. 

O'Neill  and  his  dauntless  clans  have  vanished, 
O'Connell  rests  in  a  wakeless  sleep ; 

Giant  Grattan  and  martyred  Emmet 
Freedom's  vigil  no  longer  keep ; 

But  the  holy  cause  that  fired  their  spirits 

To  battle  a  stubborn  tyrant's  will, 
Thru  the  death  and  ruin  of  ruthless  ages, 

Has  valiant  heroes  to  guard  it  still. 

For  men  may  die  and  their  deeds  die  with  them, 
Loves  may  languish,  friendships  sever, 

But  the  years  of  truth  are  the  years  of  Heaven 
And  Freedom  lives  as  a  God — forever. 


36 


She  is  living  now  and  her  bounding  pulses 
Throb  as  strong  as  in  days  of  yore, 

When,  under  the  banner  of  Green,  brave  Erin 
Routed  the  Dane  from  her  peerless  shore. 

The  Task  is  on,  and  with  soulful  efforts, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  hand  to  hand, 

They  press  to  the  breach  with  brain  and  ballot 
For  God  and  Faith  and  Native  Land. 

No  more  at  the  throne  of  English  mercy 
The  stricken  Celt  kneels  humbly  down ; 

No  longer  he  craves  the  foe's  forbearance 
Nor  cowers  at  the  tyrant's  gloomy  frown. 

The  hands  of  his  masters  at  last  are  palsied; 

They  cannot  strike  him  to  earth  again ; 
Erect  and  fearless  he  meets  their  numbers — 

Genius  for  genius,  brain  for  brain. 


37 


Have  hearts  of  iron,  ye  sons  of  Erin; 

The  struggle  and  pain  at  last  shall  cease; 
In  the  clearing  sky  is  the  Arch  of  Promise, 

Foretelling  the  d%wn  of  Freedom  and  Peace. 

Watch  thru  the  night  for  that  Peace  and  Free 
dom, 

Stand  to  your  purpose  and  marshal  your  men; 
For  God  shall  soon  lean  out  from  the  Heavens 

And  answer  your  prayer  with  a  great  Amen. 


38 


Our  Mothers 

Calvary's  Height,  close  by  the  Cross  she 
stood 
While  Christ,  her  Son,  achieved  his  martyrhood. 

A  symbol  she,  set  there  by  God  above 

To  show  the  immortal  strength  of  mother-love. 

Since  then  by  many  a  Cross,  in  many  a  land, 
Our   faithful    mothers    have   maintained    their 
stand ; 

Cheering  us  on  while  Life  retained  a  breath, 
And  constant  in  the  shadow  e'en  of  Death. 

Yea,  no  neglect,  no  thoughtlessness  so  vile 
But  what  that  Love  watched  steadfast  all  the 
while. 

In  sin  and  sorrow,  sickness  and  disgrace, 
Forgiving  all,  enduring  all — her  face. 

Calm  and  transfigured  with  celestial  glow, 
She  watches — Man,  oh!  what  a  love  to  know! 

39 


"Our  Mother" — sons  and  daughters  of  the  race, 
Bright  be   the   heart-shrine  where  she  has  her 
place; 

Tender  the  love  and  loyal  the  offering 
That,  with   true  devotion,    to    her  shrine   you 
bring. 

"Mother" — never  was  sweeter  music  heard, 
Since  the  first  child,  wondering,  whispered  the 
grand  word. 

Word  that  defines  our  rarest,  truest  dower; 
Symbol  of  Love  eternal,  truth  and  power. 

Yea,  power — for  Virtue  treacherously  assailed, 
When  every  plea,  when  every  prayer  had  failed. 

Has  struck  the  bestial  tempter  dumb  with  fear 
By  whispering  "Mother"  in  his  tortured  ear. 


His  Monuments* 

T  TE  learned  to  listen  in  the  grass, 
•*•  -•*       He  knew  the  thoughts  of  toiling  bees ; 
He  spoke  the  language  of  the  flowers, 

He  heard  the  voices  of  the  trees ; 
And  life  to  him  was  richly  full 

Of  Nature's  holiest  mysteries. 

For  him  no  lure  of  coward  gold; 

No  bartering  in  the  market-place; 
No  thought  of  self,  no  greed  for  Gain 

Which  chills  and  kills  our  gold-mad  race — 
A  father  of  the  fields,  he  wrought 

God's  landscapes  to  enrich  and  grace. 

He  planted  flowers,  he  planted  trees, 

And  watched  them  lift  and  thrive  and  thrill 

With  Life's  delirious  joy  and  strength 
In  field  and  meadow,  dale  and  hill — 

Ten  thousand  trees,  ten  million  flowers 
His  love  brought  forth,  are  living  still. 

41 


Now  worn  with  all  the  glorious  toil, 
He  sleeps  below  sweet  Nature's  breast; 

Beneath  the  poppy,  pink  and  rose, 
Beneath  the  oaks  he  loved  the  best — 

What  God-like  monuments  are  his! 

What  rest,  what  peace,  what  perfect  rest! 

And  shall  he  lie  forgotten  there? 

Nay,  nay!   for  those  ten  thousand  trees 
He  reared  shall  chant  their  requiems; 

His  children  flowers,  his  plants — yea,  these, 
Shall  seed  and  bloom  commemorative 

For  him  through  all  the  centuries! 


*  In  the  death  of  Andrew  D.  Pryal,  California  lost  one  of 
its  sincerest,  most  unselfish  and  distinguished  horticulturists, 
floriculturists  and  plant  experimenters.  His  life  was  dedicated 
to  th'e  propagation  and  protection  of  all  plant  and  tree  life. 


42 


To  Joaquin  Miller 

ARD  of  the  West,  whose  prophecies  in  Song 
Have  filled    a  world  with  wonder  and 

delight, 

Sweet  be  the  calm  and  glorious  the  dreams 
Which  visit  thee  upon  thy  Sunset  Height. 
And  may  the  homage  of  thy  loved  West 
Be  to  thy  spirit  ever  manifest. 

Yea,  may  the  singular  music  of  the  seas — 
Thy   seas,  oh!  Bard,  bear   to   thee  songs   of 

Peace, 

So  shall  the  mighty  Hills  wave  messages 
Of  Love  and  loyalty  that  shall  not  cease. 
Stand   fast!    Immortal   minstrel,  peace   to 

thee; 

The    whole    world    guards    thy    deathless 
memory. 


43 


B 


Below  the  Cliff  House 

ESIDE  the  Beach  one  Summer's  day 
I  watched  a  band  of  children  play. 

With  little  boats  they  gaily  tried 
To  safely  launch  upon  the  tide. 

I  asked  a  grieving  lad  who  stood 
Disconsolate  beside  the  flood: 

"Why  weep  you  here  uncomforted?" 
"Because  my  boats  are  lost,"  he  said; 

"Of  those  I  sent  across  the  sea 
Not  one  has  yet  returned  to  me!" 

How  many,  like  that  child,  design 
To  sport  upon  the  Beach  of  Time; 

To  cast  across  the  Flood  of  Years 

Their  Hopes,  with  never  a  thought  of  tears. 

But  Oh,  ye  countless  Souls  that  mourn, 
How  few — if  any — Hopes  return ; 

How  many  on  Life's  Beach  await, 
Heartbroken  and  disconsolate. 

44 


Looking  Forward 

rr\UE  Temples  shall  be  stripped  of  Gold 
-**         And  Kings  of  crown  and  diadem ; 
The  Creeds  teach  Truths  too  long  untold — 

Too  long  forgot  and  scorned  by  them — 
And  men  shall  follow,  as  of  old, 
The  gentle  Christ  of  Bethlehem. 

Shall  follow  just  as  children  take 
Unfalteringly  the  father's  hand 

And  walk  with  him  in  utter  faith — 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  land  to  land, 

The  world  to  real  Life  shall  wake — 
For  all  the  world  will  understand. 

Shall  follow  safe  and  sane  and  true, 
With  song  and  gladness,  and  shall  give 

As  man  to  man,  the  tender  due 
Of  love  and  mercy,  so  all  live 

Endowed  with  power  of  mercy,  too — 
(So  once,  in  peace,  the  faithful  Twelve 

Took  up  and  followed  Christ — the  Jew!) 

45 


It  should  be  so,  it  shall  be  so — 

Too  long  the  reign  of  Power  and  Pride; 
Too  long  have  martyrs  died  for  Truth 

Since  Christ  for  Truth  was  crucified. 
War,  waste  and  wretchedness  must  cease, 

And  Peace  and  Truth  with  men  abide. 

I  know  not  how,  I  know  not  when, 
But  lo!  the  Signs  are  near  and  far — 

And  thru  the  night  Truth's  magi-men 
Are  following  once  more  the  Star — 

Some  day  we  all  shall  find  again 
Where  Justice,  Love  and  Mercy  are. 

Sneer,  Neros,  on  your  thrones  of  Power, 
Laugh,  Mumblers,  in  your  golden  Shrine, 

Blare,  trumps  of  War,  that  Men  may  cower- 
Christ's  Cause  is  mightier  than  thine. 

"Ye  know  not  nor  the  Day  or  Hour" — 
Beware,  when  forms  Truth's  battle-line! 


46 


A  Call  to  the  Hills 

"VTEA,  I  was  worn  and  my  spirit  seemed  dead, 
•**        And  I  cried  to  Man  and  to  God : 
"Oh!  give  me  this  day  my  daily  bread, 

You  see  how  I  plan  and  plod; 
I  toil  by  the  Temples  where  Plenty  is  spread — 
Strike!  Moses  of  Mammon,  the  Rod." 

"There  are  bairns,  and  beautiful  ones,  to  feed, 

And  I  am  their  hope  of  gain; 
I  wear  your  livery,  I  mumble  your  creed, 

Yet  only  the  few  attain ; 
Oh!  City  of  Greed,  is  there  no  repose, 

No  meed  for  my  wretched  Pain?" 

And  a  Voice  crept  into  my  heart  and  spoke: 

"Abandon  the  gold-mad  street; 
Come  with   me   to   the   Hills  and  my  bounty 

invoke 

And  thy  peace  it  shall  be  complete, 
And  my  Earth  shall  yield  thee  thy  wants,  and  my 

yoke 
Shall  be  light,  and  my  burden  sweet." 

47 


IN    DIALECT 


Two  Idylls  of  the  Old  Town 

I — THE  "SOCIAL  SOUTH  0'  THE  SLOT." 

"Say,  Lizzie,  will  youse  come  wit'  me  dis  evenin' 

if  I  call? 
Dere's  goin'  to  be  a  Social  up  at  Federation  Hall. 

It's  a  Benefit  for  Clancy  Breen,  de  guy  dat  had 

a  spill 
While  foolin'  wid  a  buzz-saw  down  at  Darby 

Graydon's  mill. 

We'll   have    a    corkin'  time  for  keeps — it'll  be 

clean  out  of  sight, 
For  de  Rosebud  Social  Club  has  framed  a  big 

turn-out  tonight. 

Dere's  a  silver-plated  pitcher  for  de  best  team 

on  de  floor, 
Youse  kin  see  it  on  de  way  up-town  in  Isaacs' 

tailor  store. 


51 


It's  an  invintation  social — see?  de  rule  is,  youse 

must  show 
Yer  ticket   at    de   door — an'  Clementina  street 

don't  go. 

Likewise  de  gang  from  Butchertown  will  have 

to  stay  away, 
For  dey're  wearin'  cuffs  an'  full-dress  shirts — in 

f ac',  dey're  highly  gay. 

It's  class  wid  us  from  soup  to  nuts — an'  Liz,  I 

gotta  hunch 
Dat  youse  an'  me  will  cop  dat  silver  pitcher  off 

de  bunch!" 

"Say,  Jimmie,"  answered  Liz,  "will  any  cannery 

girls  be  dere? 
Dey'd  put  a  dead  cold  frost  on  any  social  where 

dey  were. 

For  'skirts'  like  Maggie  Jacobson  for  meanness 

can't  be  beat; 
I  wouldn't  walk  a-past  her  on  de  same  side  of  de 

street — 

52 


An'  if  dey  lets  into  the  social  such  a  good-fer- 

nottin'  ham, 
I'm  for  stayin'  home  an'  sleepin' — cross-me-heart, 

Jim-sure-I-am. 

Y'ure  sure  dat  she  ain't  comin'?  well,  all  right 

then,  I'll  be  dere 
As  soon  as  I  kin  change  me  rags   and  lace  an' 

comb  me  hair. 

Me  new  dress  ain't  quite  ready — but  I'll  finish  it 

by  eight 
An'  I'll  meet  youse  roun'  de  corner — now-fer- 

Gaw's-sake-don't-be-late." 

That  evening  Liz  and  Jimmie  at  Federation  Hall 
Wiggled  with  set  faces  through  the  dances  of  the 
ball. 

And  when    the  "function"  terminated  Jimmie 

"stood  the  treat" 
In  Bolz's  coffee  parlor  up  at  Fourth  and  Market 

street. 

53 


The  coffees,  backed  by  "sinkers,"  four  in  time 

were  duly  "hit," 
And   Lizzie   chewed   her  gum    while  Jimmie 

rolled  a  cigarette. 

And  then,  with  little  fingers  linked,  the  tender, 
loving  pair 

Walked  homewards  to  the  music  of  some  whis 
tled  minstrel  air; 

And  neither  bloody  Butchertown  nor  Clemen 
tina  street 

Was  there  to  cast  reflection  on  the  Rosebud  Club 
elite! 


II— THE  PROPOSAL. 

"Say,  Lizzie,  I  been  feelin'  kinda  leery  in  me 

gait, 
An'  I'm  jest  a-goin'  to  cough  it  up  an'  give  it  to 

youse  straight. 

Dere's  no  good  use  in  stallin'  when  you  got  dat 

kind  of  pain, 
So  I'll  spit  it  out,  no  matter  if  it  drives  me  heart 

insane. 

Well,  de  fact  is  I  been  troubled — troubled,  Liz 

— dat's  what  I  said — 
Most  everything  I  t'rows  into  me  stomach  feels 

like  lead. 

Me  wind  ain't  what  it  used  to  be,  I  ain't  up  to 
me  speed; 

If  I  gets  de  least  bit  nervous,  why  me  nose  be 
gins  to  bleed! 


55 


If  I  run  a  block  or  chase  a  car  me  heart  starts  in 

and  beats; 
Now  it  ain't  because  I'm  boozin'  nor  a-smokhr 

cigareets, 

For  I  haven't  took  a  beer  nor  smoked  a  cigareet 
a-tall 

Since  de  night  we  copped  de  pitcher  up  at  Fed 
eration  Hall. 

Dis  t'ing's  been  goin'  on  some  time,  aldough  1 

never  said 
A  word  to  make  youse  t'ink  dat  wheels  was  run- 

nin'  in  me  head; 

For  I  t'ought  I'd  fight  it  out  alone  and  beat  it  to 

a  'fraz,' 
But  it's  got  a  wrastlin'  hold  on  me — yes,  Liz, 

dat's  what  it  has; 

So  I  gets  me  nut  a-workin' — wid  de  partick'ler 

view 
Of  findin'  out  de  trouble — an'  I'm  talkin' 

straight — it's  you! 

56 


It  isn't  nuthin'  diffrent  and  it  can't  go  on  no 

more, 
For  de  fellers  is  dead  wise  to  me  down  at  de 

wholesale  store. 

So  don't  youse  be  hard-hearted  jest  because  youse 

have  de  drop; 

You're  me  only  trouble,  Lizzie,  an'  de  trouble's 
got  to  stop! 

We  been  doubled  up  togedder,  Liz,  for  several 

seasons  now; 
We  been  to  lots  of  rackets  an'  we  ain't  had  any 

row; 

I've  tried  to  treat  youse  decently — de  best  what  I 

could  do — 
If  dere's  any  kick  a-comin',  Liz,  it  oughtn't  come 

from  you. 

I  been  workin'  prutty  steady  an'  I  got  de  folks  to 

tank 
For  puttin'  all  me  dough  in  de  Hibernia  Savings 

Bank. 

57 


Me  muther  lets  me  have  the  bedroom  set  dat's 

painted  blue, 
De  quilt  an'  China  dishes — an'  some  other  t'ings 

for  you; 

Likewise  de  hair-clot'  sofa  in  de  front  room  we 

kin  take — 
An'  I'll  brung  me  big  accordeon,  jest  for  old 

acquaintaince  sake. 

In  f  ac',  I'll  do  most  anyt'ing  youse  can  expect  of 

me, 
If  youse'll  only  toe  de  scratch  an'  talk  up  honest 

— see? 

I  can't  be  troubled  like  I  been  much  longer — an' 

I  won't — 
So  here's  de  proposition:  Do  we  hitch  or  do  we 

don't? 

Hull  on  a  minute — don't  youse  speak  because  I'm 

feelin'  blue; 
Jest  whistle  if  yeh  don't — an'  pull  me  necktie  if 

yeh  do!" 

58 


Full  gloomy  Jimmie  looked  as  though  by  sorrow 

overawed, 
While  Lizzie  bit  her  nails  and  absent-mindedly 

said  "Gawd!" 

Far  down  the  alley  Jimmie  gazed  and  vacant 

was  his  glance 
As  that  of  some  ecstatic  being  staring  in  a  trance ; 

'Til  he  felt  his  colored  necktie  slipping  swiftly 

from  his  shirt — 
Then  he  said:  "It's  all  right,  Liz,  I  knew  youse 

wouldn't  do  me  dirt. 

I  knew  youse  wouldn't,"   Jimmie   cried;   and 

Lizzie  looked  demure 
As  she  fixed  his  tie,  and  slapped  his  face  and, 

said  to  him:    "Why-sure!" 


59 


The  Same  Old  Game 

TTS  the  same  mad  whirl; 

Sunshine  first  an'  darkness  after; 
Craft  o'  man  an'  faith  o'  girl; 

Hell  an'  hatred;  love  an'  laughter; 
Jest  the  lights  an'  shades  o'  life, 

Heart-fires  cold,  an'  then  a-flame — 
Call  it  peace,  or  call  it  strife — 
It's  jest  the  same  ol'  game. 

It's  the  same  graft  fer  gold, 

It's  the  same  thrill  o'  prize; 
Of  creatures  bought  and  sold 

By  treachery  and  lies. 
What  fills  up  the  histories? 

Chase  of  wealth  an'  power  an'  name — 
Fought  thru  all  the  centuries — 

It's  jest  the  same  ol'  game. 

Gee!  the  risin'  o'  the  sun, 

An'  the  ripple  o'  the  creek; 
Evenin's  peace  when  day  is  done 

60 


An'  the  quiet  trees  speak; 
Then  the  starlight  an'  the  dreams 

That  flood  the  soul  with  livin'  flame — 
Yes,  there's  times  Life  doesn't  seem 

To  be  the  same  ol'  game. 

Can't  we  strike  the  false  gods  dead? 

Can't  we  stick  to  Love  an'  Truth? 
Can't  we  follow  lessons  said 

By  the  firesides  of  our  Youth? 
Lore  o' nature;  lore  o' peace; 

Love  of  toil  an'  honest  name — 
Try  them  on,  an'  life'l  cease 

To  be  the  same  ol'  game. 

We  kin  reach  the  real  height 

Where  the  voice  o'  duty  calls — 
How?  why  jest  to  flash  joy's  light 

Everywhere  pain's  shadow  falls. 
Jest  to  think  o'  fellow  man, 

Jest  to  heal  the  wounds  o'  Shame; 
Jest  to  follow  God's  own  plan — 

Meanin'  God's  own  game. 

61 


4( 


Aisy  Come  an'  Aisy  Go" 

in  a  little  narrer  street 
In  front  av  Gorman's  grocery  store, 
Ould  Doogan  smokes  his  clay  dhudeen 

An'  tilts  his  chair  agin'  th'  door. 
An'  while  he  cuts  his  twisted  plug 
An'  watches  men  pass  to  and  fro, 
Says  he,  wid  philosophic  mug: 
"They're  aisy  come  an'  aisy  go." 

A  full-faced  man  is  he,  of  years; 

Red-shirted,  too,  with  beard  galore, 
An'  crimsoned  from  the  many  beers 

Which  daily  down  his  throttle  pour. 
Large-jawed  an'  stiff  in  gait  an'  limb, 

Wit'  little  eyes  that  shrewdly  glow; 
An'  all  day  long  says  he  to  him: 

"It's  aisy  come  an'  aisy  go." 

He  rolls  the  'baccy  in  his  hands, 
He  stomps  it  in  his  ancient  pipe; 


He  takes  a  match,  assumes  a  stand 
An'  lights  it  with  a  mighty  swipe. 

He  sees  the  smoke  in  circles  roll, 
While  in  the  pipe  the  embers  glow; 

"An',  faith,"  sez  he,  "smoke's  loike  a  soul — 
'Tis  aisy  come  an'  aisy  go." 

At  night  when  honest  toil,  alive 

To  pleasure  seeks  the  Gorman's  place 
To  have  a  game  av  "forty-five," 

There  may  be  seen  his  shining  face. 
He  reads  the  daily  papers  thru, 

'Bout  sthrikes  an'  politics  an'  so — 
An  winds  up  wid  his  private  view — 

"They're  aisy  come  an'  aisy  go." 

An'  so  does  Doogan  smoke  an'  doze, 
An'  thus  his  time  he  idly  spends — 

The  flies  that  clushter  on  his  clothes 
His  only  confidential  friends. 

"It's  pleasant  weather  Doogan,"  cries 
Some  neighbor,  "don't  ye  think  'tis-so?" 

63 


Sez  Doogan  (rousin'  up  the  flies) 

"It's  aisy  come  an'  aisy  go." 
'Tis  said  that  wanst,  in  years  gone  by, 

Poor  Doogan  loved  a  comely  maid; 
She  jilted  Doogan  on  the  sly 

An'  left  him  lonely  an'  dismayed; 
But  whin  the  news  was  brought  to  him 

He  stopped  the  tears  that  thried  to  flow, 
An'  only  said,  wid  visage  grim: 

"She's  aisy  come  an'  aisy  go." 

Since  Molly  jilted  him  life  seems 

A  fraud,  a  mockery  an'  a  lie, 
An'  men  an'  other  things  are  dhreams 

Too  small  to  think  of  earnestly; 
"I  have,"  sez  he,  "me  views  av  life — 

They're  quick  to  say  but  harrud  to  know; 
I'm  thinkin'  joy  is  moshtly  sthrife, 

An'  aisy  come  an'  aisy  go." 


64 


To  Earth  wid  all  its  teemin'  things, 

To  man  wid  all  his  sunny  hopes, 
To  beasts  a-foot  an'  birruds  a-wing, 

An'  seas  that  sthrike  the  border  slopes; 
To  loves  that  paint  life's  lonely  skies, 

To  much  above  and  mosht  below, 
Ould  Doogan's  Irish  phrase  applies: 

"THEY'RE  AISY  COME  AN'  AISY  GO." 


65 


T 


Rhymes  Without  Reason 

I— THE  TALE  OF  THE  WHANGEREE. 

HERE  once  was  a  whimsical  Whangeree 
That  lived  in  a  shady  cocoa  tree, 
And  whimpered  and  sighed  day  after  day 
To  a  flirtative  Whangeroo  over  the  way; 
But  sigh  as  he  would  she  turned  her  head, 
And  he  chittered  and  wailed:    "I  wish  I  were 

dead; 

For  why  shall  I  live  and  suffer,  too, 
For  love  of  a  heartless  Whangeroo? 
Ah!  me,"  wept  he, 
(Poor  Whangeree!) 
As  he  shuddered  his  tail  in  the  cocoa-tree. 

Now  it  happened  to  pass  that  the  Whangeree 

Was  caught  in  his  doleful  reverie, 

And  taken  off  in  a  mighty  boat 

And  dressed  in  pants  and  a  velvet  coat, 

To  dance  in  the  streets  of  a  sea-port  town 

66 


And  catch  the  pennies  that  pattered  down. 

He  brooded  and  pined  for  the  brown-eyed  maid 

He  left  in  the  far-away  Congo  glade. 

"Chick-a-chee!"  sobbed  he, 

(Drear  Whangeree!) 
"Oh!  I  wish  I  were  back  in  the  cocoa-tree." 

But  maidens  are  false  and  fickle,  too, 
And  so  was  this  heartless  Whangeroo ; 
"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  uhe  has  gone  away; 
He  was  very  amusing,  I'm  free  to  say; 
Yet  now  that  he's  gone  he  is  not,  I  see, 
The  only  monk  in  the  cocoa-tree! 
There's  another  Whangeree  stout  and  hale, 
And  I'll  make  HIM  sigh  and  twist  his  tail! 

"Tee!  hee!"  laughed  she, 

"Poor  Whangeree  I" 
As  she  braided  her  tail  in  the  cocoa-tree. 


67 


II — THE  CHEMICAL  CAT. 

There's  a  chemical  shop  'way  down  in  the  gloom 
Of  a  street  on  the  Flat,  in  a  little  back-room, 
Where  a  crusty  old  Chemist  keeps  working  away 
With  his  gases  and  acids  the  whole  of  the  day. 
The  place  is  so  smelly  and  gloomy  and  drear, 
That  no  one  would  care  to  partake  of  its  cheer, 
Save  a  strange-looking  object  on  top  of  a  vat — 
The  chemist's  companion,  the  Chemical  Cat. 

Now  this  marvelous  cat  has  a  history  strange 
That  is  told  by  the  felines  abroad  on  the  range 
Of  the  neighboring  rooves  in  those  hours  of  the 

night 
When  boot-jacks  are  thrown  and  the  moon  sheds 

her  light. 
For  'tis  said  that  this  Tom  milk  and  mice  doth 

eschew 

To  unnaturally  dine  upon  HO2. 
A  diet  un-feline — you'll  join  me  in  that — 
For  a  real  self-respecting  and  God-fearing  Cat! 

68 


For  breakfast  it  eats  up  a  plate  of  blue  mas 
And  washes  it  down  with  some  liquified  gas ; 
For  dinner  it  takes  a  few  pieces  of  chalk 
(And  rosins  its  toes  to  be  firm  in  its  walk). 
Its  whiskers  are  dyed  a  most  beautiful  green, 
Its  hind  legs  are  covered  with  red  bisalene; 
Its  tail  is  sea-green  and  its  forelegs  are  blue, 
Its  back  is  seal-brown — and  its  stomach  is,  too. 
Faith!  there's  mighty  few  people  would  dare  to 

cry  "Scat!" 
At  this  terribly  tinted,  strange,  Chemical  Cat! 

Thus  lonely  and  shunned  by  its  fellow  felines — 
(And  'tis  shunned,  by  the  by,  upon  strict  color 

lines — ) 

This  odd-looking  object  may  daily  be  seen, 
Chewing  carbolized  cotton  or  else  Paris  green; 
While    the   crusty  old  Chemist  keeps  working 

away 
As    I  mentioned  before,  with  his  drugs  all  the 

day; 


And  the  one  fear  which  haunts  it  is  that  it  may 

dine 

Upon  mixtures  which  into  a  flame  will  combine, 
Which,  igniting  the    gas,  stored    inside   like  a 

drum, 
Would  explode  with  the  force  of  an  anarchist 

bomb: 

So  in  fear  of  its  life,  all  alone  on  the  vat 
Sits  this  bleached,  dyed  and  gas-guzzling  Chem 
ical  Cat. 


70 


Brannigan's  Lawn 

ORANNIGAN  works  on  the  lawn  all  day, 
-^  Brannigan's  hair  is  scanty  and  grey; 

Brannigan's  hands  are  knotty  and  black; 
Brannigan  limps  on  "wan  ind"  of  his  back. 

But  Brannigan  thinks  as  the  moments  pass 
And  he  gathers  the  chickweed  out  of  the  grass ; 

And  says  he  in  his  musical  Irish  voice: 
"Faith,  I'm  ould  as  Methusel,  but  me  spirits 
rejoice ; 

I'm  ould  as  Methusel  without  kith  or  kin, 
And  I'm  full  of  wrinkles — I  am — an'  sin, 

But  the  Lorrud  is  good,  an'  I'm  cam — I'm  cam 
Whin  I  thinks  of  me  ind,  sir, — I  am — /  am!" 

Brannigan  once  had  a  wife  and  three 
Of  "the  lov'liest  childre  you  could  see"; 


71 


But  one  of  them  married  and  two  of  them  died, 
Then  followed  the  wife  to  the  other  side. 

"I'm  alone  in  the  wurruld,  but  I'm  patient  an' 

brave," 
Says  he,  "tho  I've  wan  of  me  legs  in  the  grave; 

Tis  here  I  am  an7  'tis  here  I'll  be 

'Til  Gab'rel  blows  up  his  troompet  for  me. 

'Tis  the  lonely  loikes  of  meself  that's  found 
That  friends  are  scarcer  than  fairy  ground. 

Whin  yure  ould  an'  nashty  an'  wrinkled  an'  grey, 
Wherever  ye  go  yure  in  somebody's  way; 

Faith,  I've  found  it  out  since  I  losht  me  Liz — 
'Tis  yure  hand  that's  yure  frind,  sir, — it  is — 
it  is." 

Then  he  pauses  and  gives  you  a  serious  view — 
"Faith,  yure  mother,  sir,  well  may  be  proud  av 
you! 

72 


Yure  a  good  man  born  an'  a  gintleman  bred, 
Luck  an'  fortune  is  starin'  you  sthraight  ahead. 

Well,  I'm  happy  meself,  fer  I'm  never  broke 
If  I've  the  price  of  a  dhrink  an'  a  bit  of  a  smoke. 

Yes,  a  cup  av  coffee  an'  a  dime  or  two 
An' — Lorrud  bless  you,  an'  sure,  I  am  thankful 
to  you !" 

Then  Brannigan  stoops  and  the  chick-weed  flies, 
And  he  looks  up  cunningly  out  of  his  eyes ; 

And  you  meet  his  look  and  he  straightens  his 

phiz — 
And — he's  "cuttin'  the  grass,  sir" — he  is — he  is. 


73 


Gloom  in  Darktown 

\  H  ain't  no  count  ...  Ah  nevah  might  .  . 
*  ^       Ah  couldn't  be  no  good; 
Mos'  everyone  dat  looks  at  me 

Knows  Ah  ain't  what  Ah  should. 
They  ain't  no  room  foh  argyment, 

Ah'm  dead  wrong  .  .  .  Ah'm  sham ; 
Make  no  mistake  'bout  me,  Suh, 

Ah'm  n-no  good  .  .  .  dat's  what  I  am. 

Jess  see  dem  shoes  ...  no  sole  ...  no  heel  .  .  . 

Wohn  down  .  .  .  wohn  down  .  .  .  <wohn  down 
From  trapassin'  'roun'  to  git  a  job — 

No  work  foh  me  in  dis  town ; 
Mah  clo'es  is  bum  .  .  .  mah  talk  is  bum  .  .  . 

Face  like  a  buhrned-out  ham; 
Ah'm  nach'ly  bad  .  .  .  Ah  look  like  suspishin 

Ah'm  no  good  .  .  .  dat's  what  Ah  am. 


Ah  made  a  quartah  t'other  day 

A-sawin'  up  some  wood  .  .  . 
Gave  a  s'loonman  de  quartah  to  change  .  .  . 

He  sez:  "Dat  money's  n-n-no  good!" 
Ah  sez:  "Jess  so!"  ...  he  sez:  "You  no  good 
youseff." 

Said  Ah  b'lieved  him  ...  he  hit  me  a  slam 
Ah  sez:   "G'on,  Boss!   hit  me  some  moh  .  .  . 

Ah'm  n-n-no  good  .  .  .  dat's  what  I  am!" 

They  ain't  no  cuhr  foh  mah  disease  ... 

They  cain't  be,  for  it's  me; 

Ah'm  my    own    trouble  .    .    .  mah    body    ain't 
right  .  .  . 

Folks  jest  have  to  leave  me  be  .  .  . 
Ah'm  skayed  of  mahsef    .    .    .    Ah'm  a  double 
cross  .  .  . 

Ah'm  a  babe  dat  was  bohn  in  a  jam  .  .  . 
Ah'm  what  you  try  to  git  away  from  .  .  . 

Ah'm  n-no  good  .  .  .  dat's  what  Ah  am. 


75 


Ah  got  no  good  use  in  livin'  .  .  . 

Ain't  half  way  fit  to  be  daid  .  .  . 
Ah'm  in  mah  own  way  in  de  daytime, 

An'  Ah  cain't  sleep  still  in  mah  bed  .  .  . 
Cain't  say    nothin'  good  .  .  .  cain't  do  nothin' 
good  .  .  . 

Ah'm  a  left-over  .  .  .  Ah'm  a  clam! 
Keep  moovin'  way  fuhm  me,  Mistah  .  .  .  Ah'm 

ketchin'  .  .  . 
Ah'm  n-n-no  good  .  .  .  dat's  what  ah  am. 


NOTE. — The  profound  conviction  of  the  stout  colored  gentleman 
who  supplemented  a  request  for  "ten  cents"  by  solemnly  and 
slowly  declaring  his  unworth  in  this  world,  induced  the  above 
verses.  I  can  see  him  as  he  shifted  away  with  the  coin,  now 
and  then  turning  to  assure  me  that  he  was  "n-no  good !" — until, 
as  he  slouched  out  of  speaking  distance,  he  half  turned  his  head 
and  shook  his  hand  sadly — I  knew  his  final  message  was  his  first 
— that  I  was  to  always  remember  he  was  "nach'ly  n-no  good." 

76 


Kennedy's  Cure 

j^ENNEDY  sits  on  the  butter-box 
-*^      Outside  of  the  Gorman's  grocery  store, 
And  watches  the  laborers  pounding  rocks 

While  he  pulls  on  his  clay  dhudeen  galore; 
And  once  in  a  while  when  a  small  street  man 

Who  is  down  on  his  luck  with  nothing  to  do, 
Comes  wheeling  around  with  his  "jimmy-can," 

Says  Kennedy :  "What  is  the  matther  wit  you? 
Yure  eyes  look  dull  an'  yure  face  is  pale, 

Whin   yure   tongue   is  yellow   'tis   a   timely 

warnin' — 
Take  a  dose  av  salts  an'  a  whishkey  punch 

An'  you'l  be  a  well  man  in  th'  mornin'. 

For  he's  the  physician  of  Langton  street, 

No  matter  whatever  the  ill, 
Whether  measles  or  mumps  or  corns  on  the  feet, 

His  remedy  works  true  still. 


77 


"Whin  yure  sick  live  up  to  yure  common  sense 
An'  the  traits  that  yure  folks  was  born  in — 

Take  a  whiskhey  punch  an'  a  dose  of  salts 
An'  you'l  be  a  well  man  in  the  mornin'. 

"Sure,  what  is  the  use  of  thim  nashty  drugs 

That  ye  take  wid  a  spoon,  ye  gummach! 
Divil  a  dhrop  o'  th'  sthuff  ye  see 

Th'  docthor  put  in  his  stomach. 
But  whin  he's  sick,  sir,  he  takes  a  glass 

An'  puts  a  stout  ould  horn  in, 
Takes  his  whishkey  punch  wid  a  dose  av  salts 

An'  wakes  up  a  well  man  in  the  mornin'. 

Jist  look  at  poor  little  Jimmy  Dunn, 

That  was  buried  this  blessed  day; 
He  dhrank  a  drug-store — rest  his  soul! 

While  the  docthors  were  laughing  away; 
But  what  was  the  use  to  give  him  advice 

Whin  it  only  brought  me  his  scornin'? 
Yet,  a  whishky  punch  an'  a  dose  av  salts — 

An'  he'd  been  a  well  man  this  mornin'. 

78 


From  a  Perry  Street  Front  Stoop 

TT'S  true  for  you,  my  good  woman,  I'm  feeling 

-**  fine  to-day, 

And  more  contented  than  I've  been  this  six- 
week  anyway; 

Yes,  'tis  me  can  rest  in  comfort  with  the  baby  on 
the  stoop — 

Long  Pat's  got  a  job,  and  Johnny's  over  of  the 
croup. 

Between  the  rent  man  worrying  me  both  mor 
ning,  noon  and  night; 

Bills  piling  up  like  shavings  and  divil  a  cent  in 
sight, 

You  can  well  believe,  good  woman,  that  me 
-  shoulders  had  to  stoop 

Until  Pat  got  a  job  and  Johnny  mended  of  the 
croup. 

'Twas  money,  money  all  the  time  for  this  thing 
or  for  that; 

79 


Cam-f rated  oil  for  Johnny's  throat,  and  tobacco 

for  old  Pat — 
Lord  forgive  me  for  getting  mad — him  sitting 

on  the  stoop, 
And  him  without  a  job — and  Johnny  busting 

with  the  croup. 

God  knows  and  all  the  neighbors  knows  that's 

living  on  the  street 
I  worked  the  knuckles  off  me  hands  and  the 

bunions  off  me  feet 
With  making  both  ends  touch — and,  faith,  'twas 

me  was  in  the  soup 
Until  Pat  got  a  job  and  Johnny  mended  of  the 

croup. 

Sure,  I  clouted  him,  I  was  that  mad  when  I 

traced  him  up  one  night 
To  Mister  Gorman's  grocery  and  him  playing 

cards — and  tight; 


80 


"Divil  twist  you,  Pat,"  says  I,  "and  do  you  think 

I'll  be  your  dupe, 
And  you  without  a  job,  and  Johnny  groaning 

with  the  croup? 

"I'd  thank  you,  Mister  Gorman,"  says  I,  "if 

you'd  give  that  man  no  beer; 
I'd  thank  you,  Mister  Gorman,"  says  I;  "Now, 

Pat,  get  out  of  here; 
Get  out,  you  lazy  Gummach,  and  get  back  to 

your  own  stoop ; 
For  it's  little  you  think  of  work  and  your  poor 

boy  Johnny's  croup." 

Missis  Brady  stole  me  hens  because  she  saw  me 

hands  were  tied  .  .  . 
Faith,  I  threw  it  up  to  her  this  morning 

she  was  that  mad  she  cried! 
'Divil  miend  you,   Missis  Brady,'  says  I,  'and 

why  didn't  you  steal  the  coop  .  .  . 
And  my  man  without  a  job  and  Johnny  gagging 

with  the  croup! 


"Shame  on  you,  common  woman,  it's  reported 

you  should  be 
For  thieving,  just  because  I  couldn't  keep  me 

eyes  on  ye; 
Sure  I'd  almost  pray  the  chickens  would  give 

your  brats  the  roop, 
Only  Pat's  got  a  job  and  Johnny's  over  of  the 

croup. 

"Well,  I  hope  you're  feeling's  as  well  as  I  am, 

good  woman,  this  blessed  day. 
Pat's  coming  from  the  stable  soon  ...  I  sent 

Johnny  for  some  tay, 
And  while  the  kitchen's  cooling  off,  thinks  I,  I'll 

rest  me  on  the  stoop  .  .  . 
Long  Pat's  got  a  job — d'you  see? — and  Johnny's 

over  of  the  croup." 


Fellowship 

FROM  MISTER  DOOGAN'S  POINT  OF  VIEW. 

YE  live  yure  life,  an'  ye  live  as  ye  please, 
An'  ye  pack  wid  yure  own  ould  Clan; 
An'  ye  buy  yure  bread  an'  yure  mate  an' 

yure  cheese 

The  mosht  and  the  cheapest  ye  can ; 
Ye  gather  yure  gold,  clutch  be  clutch  'til  ye 

die- 
But,  frind,  lave  me  toss  ye  this  tip: 
There's  wan  thing  ye'll  never  deceive  nor  buy, 
An'  that  is  thrue  fellowship. 

For  'tis  borrun  of  th'  soul  that  ud  die  for  you 

Of  th'  heart  that  kin  weep  in  song; 
Of  brawn  and  brains  that  is  tinse  an'  thrue, 

Of  Faith  that  is  manly  an'  sthrong; 
Of  th'  Mercy  that  stops  the  timpted  lie 

From  makin'  the  firsht  bad  slip — 
Yes,  gold  is  gold,  but  it  niver  can  buy 

Strong,  brave,  good  fellowship. 

83 


The  Cats  av  Kilkenny 

cats  av  Kilkenny  are  frolicsome  crea- 

tures, 
Wid  whishkers  as  stiff  as  a  porcupine's 

quills; 
While  the  f aymales  have  beautiful  claws  an'  fine 

features 

That  'ud  fill  any  Tom  wid  a  million  av  thrills. 
An'  the  downiest  fur! 
An'  mosht  blarneyin'  purr! 
Always    ready    for    any   ould    scrimmage   and 

scratch — 

Sure,  there  isn't  enny 
Cats  in  th'  wurruld 
Like  the  rollickin',  frolickin'  Cats  av  Kilkenny. 

The    Cats    av    Kilkenny  sometimes    are   quite 

pleasin', 

(An'  full  av  the  good-natured  divil  at  that!) 
But,  faith,  if  they're  rubbed  the  wrong  way  wid- 

out  reason, 

84 


Be  the  Powers!  they'll  fight  at  the  dhrop  av  a 

hat! 

Yes,  they'll  glare  an7  they'll  glower 
On  fence  an'  Round  Tower, 
For  they're  divils  on  knowin'  with  who  to  have 

spats ; 

And  throughout  Ireland's  nation 
They've  a  great  reputation 
For  hatin'  land  agents  an'  peelers — an'  rats! 
Sorra  the  enny 
Cats  in  the  wurruld 

Like  the  blashtering,  mashtering  Cats  av 
Kilkenny. 

Now,  the  cats  av  Kilkenny,  I'm  plazed  to  explain 

that 
The  first  two  in  hist'ry  were  transformed  from 

men; 
The    first  Tom  was  Cromwell,  the    faymale   a 

Dane  that 


85 


Was  thrapped  in  a  bog  at  the  siege  av  Lough 

Glen. 

'Twas  a  fairy  whose  magic 
Doomed  thim  to  the  tragic 
Existence  of  cats — "an'  ye  divils!"  sez  she, 
Scratch  an'  meaouw  up  and  down 
Thru  ould  Kilkenny  town, 
An'  kape  fightin'  an'  bitin'  'til  poor  Ireland's 

free!" 

Then  she  tapped  them  quite  gaily 
Wid  her  blessed  shillaylee — 
An'  sure  now  you've  the  cause   of   the  Cats  av 
Kilkenny. 


86 


TOWN  BALLADS  AND  PLAIN 
STATEMENTS 


Where  You  Live  Every  Day 

T  AM  tired  of  the  City,  its  traffic  and  din; 
•*•  Of  its  alleys  of  shame  and  its  mansions  of  sin; 
Of  its  pride  of  false  living,  its  commerce  by 

stealth, 

Of  its  pathos  of  poverty,  swagger  of  wealth; 
Of   its    boulevard    brazenry,   presumption   and 

pose, 
And  its  judgment  of  men  by  their  bank-books 

and  clothes; 

So  I  want  to  get  back  to  the  country  again, 
To  the  farm  and  the  orchard,  the  meadow  and 

plain; 
To   the   deep-bosomed  valleys,  beflowered  and 

green, 

Where  warm-hearted  Nature  forever  is  Queen; 
Where   the  clover  airs  balmily  blow  on  your 

cheek, 
Where  you  live  every  day  and  not  just  once  a 

week. 

89 


Oh!  the  pity,  the  pain  and  the  despond  of  life, 
Where  the  minions  of  Mammon  are  always  in 

strife ; 

Where  dishonesty,  envy  and  lust  crowd  the  hives 
And  the  foul  lure  of  Gold  leads  its  slaughter  of 

lives. 

Ah!  City!  your  mansions  and  cafes  are  bright 
With  their  tinkle    of   glasses,  their  music    and 

light; 

Your  avenues  teem  with  Pomp's  gaudy  parade, 
But   Poverty's    children   crouch    dumb   in    the 

shade — 

And  I'm  sick  of  it  all — to  the  country  again, 
Where  health  and  clean  living  are  prized  more 

than  gain ; 
Where  hearts  are  unselfish  and  mean  'what  they 

speak — 
Where  you  live  every  day  and  not  just  once  a 

week. 


90 


Good-bye  to  you,  City.    Good-bye  to  your  pride, 
Good-bye  to  the  heartaches  your  blandishments 

hide; 
Good-bye  to  your  marts  and  your  sky-scrapers 

tall, 
And  may  God  help  the  failures  you   lured  to 

their  fall. 

For  I  and  my  sweetheart  are  faced  to  the  hills, 
Upbuilded  by  God  at  Creation's  first  thrills; 
We  shall  breath  of  the  clover;  our  toil  shall  be 

rest; 

And  our  friends  shall  be  those  who   are  time- 
tried  and  best. 

The  linnet  shall  wake  us  at  dawn's  rosy  light, 
And  the  cricket's  sweet  chirp  lull  our  sleeping 

at  night; 
And  we'll  know  by  the  roses  which  bloom  on 

each  cheek 
That  we  live  every  day — and  not  just  once  a 

week! 


91 


A  Song  for  the  Down  and  Out 

WELL,  son,  are  you  feeling   the  stings  of 
defeat 

After  struggling  to  conquer  Success? 
Do  you  think  there's  a  JINX  that  you  sim 
ply  can't  beat? 

Do  your  creditors  harry  and  press? 
Are  your  clothes  getting  seedy?  your  cash  run 
ning  low? 

Do  you  fear  all  your  courage  has  fled? 
Then    forget    it — you're    only    commencing   to 

show — 
A  man's  never  down  'til  he's  dead. 

No  physician  prescribes  for  himself  when  he's 

in, 

For  he  knows  that  his  brain  isn't  clear; 
So  when  you're  disheartened  and  weakened  in 

will 
Why  let  some  hopeful  guy  give  you  cheer. 


92 


Smile  up  at  your  creditors — say  that  you'll  try 

To  a  finish  and  come  out  ahead; 
Keep  a-hustling;    you'll  have  plenty  cash  by- 
and-by — 

They  can't  put  you  down  'til  you're  dead. 

I  know  it's  a  tough  proposition  to  strive, 
Meeting  many  a  cruel  rebuff, 

With  you  battling  to  keep  soul  and  body  alive, 
And  the  world  seeming  cold — oh!  it's  tough! 

But,  gee!  when  you've  kept  up  the  desolate  fight 
And  you  win — ain't  it  great  for  the  head? — 

Keep   a-chasing  the   Jinx,  son,  his    goat   is    in 

sight- 
Play  to  'win — you're  not  down  'til  you're  dead. 

Here's  my  hand,  chum;   you  play  on  the  good- 

•  fellow's  side; 

Cut  the  "Dead  march  in  Saul" — try  a  jig/ 
Three  cheers  for  you!    Now  for  that  Marathon 
stride  .  .  . 

93 


Oh!  you  winner!  get  busy  and  dig — 
A  good-natured  world,  son,  is  there  with  the 

Boost, 

Though  the  grouches  may  hammer  instead — 
Never  mind  them — their  chickens  will  have  a 

low  roost — 
YOU'LL  be  up  when  the  knockers  are  dead. 


94 


Mother  Hubbard  Up  to  Date 


^TTMIE   rhymes  of   our  childhood  sometimes 
•*•  have  a  meaning 

Which  the  thoughtful  can  put  to  good 

use; 
Yes,  there's  many  a  text  for  a  practical  sermon 

In  the  jingles  of  dear  Mother  Goose. 
When  youVe  gambled    your    time    and    side 

stepped  the  good  chances, 
Just  recall,  in  your  lonely  despair, 
How  Old  Mother  Hubbard  once  went  to  the 

cupboard  — 
And  found  that  "the  cupboard  was  bare." 

If  you've   money  in   plenty  your  friends    are 

alluring; 

They're  the  best  of  good  fellows  just  then; 
They  have  money  to  lend  you,  are  glad  to  be 

friend  you, 
And  declare  you  a  prince  among  men. 

95 


But  when  Luck  takes  a  turn  and  you  crave  for 

their  help — well — 

You  find  that  the  "bunch"  isn't  there — 
Yes,  my  dear  Mother  Hubbard,  you  go  to  the 

cupboard — 
And  discover  it's  terribly  bare. 

Tho'  there  may  be  exceptions,  this  rule  is  a  true 

one — 

There's  ten  grafters  for  one  real  friend — 
It  is  not  what  you  are  that  concerns  them,  by  far, 
But  it's  just  what  you've  got — what  you  spend! 
With  the  end  of  your  pile  they  have  passed  the 

last  smile — 

They're  too  busy  to  think  of  your  care — 
There  you  are,  Mother  Hubbard!  you  have  gone 

to  the  cupboard 
And  found  it  was  dismally  bare! 


96 


I  don't  mean  that  the  whole  world  is  selfish  and 

vicious — 

Not  at  all — make  your  friends — spend  away; 
But  be  sure  you  deposit  some  "bones"  in  the 

"closed- 
Mother  Hubbard  may  need  them  some  day. 
You  take  pleasure  in  giving,  but  as  for  the  ask 
ing— 

Well,  you  know  if  youVe  ever  been  there — 
So,  my  dear  Mother  Hubbard,  when  you  go  to 

the  cupboard 
Have  it  fixed  that  the  cupboard's  not  bare. 


97 


The  Danger  Line 

T"\ID  you  wake  with  a  start  wondering  where 
*~*  you  were  at? 

Then  lay  back  to  soberly  think; 
But  decide  that  the  very  best  thing  you  could  do 

Would  be  "skid"  to  the  nearest  drink? 
Did  you  slip  past  the  breakfast  you  couldn't  eat 

And  rush  to  the  beer  and  the  wine? 
Did   you   join    in     some    prosperous    grafter's 
treat? — 

Then  you're  on  the  Danger  Line. 

It  is  foolish  enough,  son,  to  jolly  the  "crowd" 

When  you're  "kidding"  for  daily  pelf; 
But,  listen!  there's  only   a  grave  and  a  shroud 

For  the  fellow  who  kids  himself. 
A  few  "rounds"  of  drink  and  you  say — and  be 
lieve — 

"The  world  is  all  mine — all  mine!" — 
Yet  it's  only  yourself  that  you  deceive — 

For  you're  on  the  Danger  Line. 


You'd  not  do  an  act  to  wife,  mother  or  child 

That  would  threaten  their  lives  with  disgrace, 
You'd  declare  the  accuser  was  brutal  and  wild 

If  he  said  such  a  thing  to  your  face — 
But,  man,  are  there  loved  ones  who  prosper  or 
lose 

By  some  acts  good  or  bad  that  you  do? 
Are  you  dragging  their  souls  to  the  bars  where 
you  booze? 

Are  they  on  the  Danger  Line  too? 


99 


Don't  Stay  at  the  Grave  Too  Long 


Past  is  a  grave  which  we  tenderly  strew 
With  flowers  of  Remembrance  alway, 
For  the  Loves   and   the  Friendships  we 

once  fondly  knew 
In  the  hours  of  a  dead  yesterday. 
It  is  sweet  that  we  visit  the  tomb  of  the  Past, 
Its  memories  still  near  us  should  throng; 
Yet  —  recall  that  Life  presses  us  on  to  a  Task  — 
And  don't  stay  at  the  Grave  too  long. 

Yes,  'tis  tender  to  think  of  the  dear  days  a-gone 

When  ambition  was  lusty  and  young; 
To  remember  the  sweet  hopes  we  built  upon 

And  the  thrill  of  old  loves  we  sung; 
For  the  dear,  vanished  Memories  now  buried 

away 

Crave  a  loyalty  steady  and  strong; 
Let   us   cherish  the  Past  and   its  graves  —  but, 
say  — 

Don't  stay  at  the  Grave  too  long. 

100 


In  Parting 

ELOVED  West,  thou  art  all  song  and  glad- 

ness ; 
Thy  seas   are   symphonies,    thy   sparkling 

streams 

Sing  joyous  lyrics  while  they  run — thy  moun 
tains 
And   giant   woods    are   vibrant   with    grand 

themes. 

From  the  Sierras  to  the  Sunset  seas 
Peal  forth,  to  accordant  souls,  thy  glorious 
melodies. 

Deem  it  not  strange  if  I,  one  of  thy  children, 
Spelled  by  the  music  of  hill,  wood  and  sea, 
Should  like  a  child  shrill  forth  in  mimic  trebles 
Some  note  of  song,  however  vainlessly. 
For  West,  thou  art  my  mother,  and  I  fling 
My  truant  song  to  thee  because  I  cannot 
help  but  sing. 


101 


I  feel,  however,  humbly,  all  thy  glory, 

Air,  sea  and  sky  bear  me  thy  marvelous  song; 

Tomes  of  the  past  have  given  my  soul  thy  story — 

How   beautiful   thou   art!  how   brave!  how 

strong! 

Oh !  Guardian  of  the  World's  last  destiny — 
Would  that  thy  child  could  sing  a  truer 

song  for  thee. 
• 

My  little  note  is  sung — I  pass  along — 
Forgive  the  singer  and  forget  the  song. 


102 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO.  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


APR 


22  1940 


LD  21-95m-7,'37 


YB  73624 


744252 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


